


Rediscovering Sanity

by quietlyhabibti



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Asylum, Arson, Explicit Language, Gen, Homophobic Language, M/M, Physical Abuse, Sibling Incest, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:32:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietlyhabibti/pseuds/quietlyhabibti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo is admitted to an insane asylum and it’s a creepy crazy place. There’s the man that burned his entire family alive, another one that took an ax to several people’s heads and wouldn't stop cracking jokes the entire time. The two smarmy brothers put away for blatant incest, the man that screams nonsensical words. But Bilbo is certain that he doesn't belong there, certain that he didn't kill those people like they say he did. </p><p>Certain.</p><p>Fairly certain.</p><p>But then there are the weekly sittings with the psychiatrist, and each visit Bilbo peels away more and more of what happened. </p><p>Maybe he isn't so certain after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OrangeCruiser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangeCruiser/gifts).



> Fill for a prompt on hobbit_kink @ Livejournal.  
> Prompt (continuation): Meanwhile that terrifying brooding man who apparently set fire to his family home is looking at Bilbo as if he’d like nothing more than to eat him up. Or kill him, either way, Bilbo is petrified.
> 
> Then there’s the laughing ax murderer, who is so charismatic and so kind and when his eyes gleam at Bilbo from under that ridiculous hat that the guards couldn't wrest from him Bilbo feels things in his stomach that are just wrong because this is man has KILLED PEOPLE, for Christ's sake.
> 
> And Bilbo most certainly has never killed anyone.
> 
> …right?

The sign reads 'The Misty Mountain Psychiatric Hospital for the Criminally Insane' but all Bilbo sees is 'Cage'. Maybe it's actually pronounced 'Hell', he's not entirely sure.

He sighs, breath fogging against the window, and closes his eyes. They're wrong sending him here; he never did anything but bake pastries of all sorts and frost his perfect little cakes day in, day out. Everyone loved them, raved about them even. He never killed anyone.

The bus comes to an awkward stop, lurching slightly with a loud pop from the rear, and he's being re-cuffed, pushed forward by a bald security guard that looks like _he's_ killed people. A breeze hits him and he can smell the decay of the old asylum.

"Home, sweet home," his escort laughs, his throaty chuckles unwelcome. Gravel crunches underfoot and Bilbo frowns. _Wrong_ , he thinks, home _is my little flat above the bakery, filled with all of my things. My baubles and books and floral patterned tea set with the matching biscuit jar. This is a piece of shit filled with scum. This is false imprisonment_.

He's stripped naked when he first gets past the check-in. His protesting gets a few snorting laughs from the staff. Then he's scrubbed raw by a pair of chatty women and he has to bite into his lower lip to stop himself from shouting at these clucking hens. They dowse him in hot water, one final rinse, before handing him a pale blue uniform made of horribly scratchy cloth.

 _The ward is clean, at least_ , he concedes. With his few possessions that made it through security clearance - an old photograph of his parents, one of himself and his baby nephew, and an old pipe that he likes to have, even though smoking isn't permitted - and a spare change of clothes, Bilbo is led through the winding halls to his room. 111. Just as sterile and cold as the rest of the place. Pale yellow paint chips at the top of the walls and the window has a grate over it, though the structure is permanently shut, but the bed creaks minimally and there is only the faintest scent of urine somewhere in the corner. He decides he just won't venture over there often.

"Ten minutes 'fore you get to meet the doc." The door closes, the lock clicks, and Bilbo finds himself alone for the first time in three weeks. He cries for the first time in three years.

"Mister Baggins, please, have a seat," the doctor says. She is beautiful, a head taller than he is and more graceful than he would imagine with her height. She has ashen blonde hair, bordering on platinum, that rests comfortably down her back. Her eyes, oh, they are a crisp blue that draws him in. Clad in a simple white maxi dress, he decides this mystery doctor looks like an angel.

Bilbo stands across from her, a desk separating them, and fidgets somewhat in his starched uniform. He doesn't like talking to strangers, never has; back home, his family was able to avoid chats with others and others didn't seem to mind. Even this woman's loveliness doesn't make the thought any less unappealing.

"May I call you Bilbo? You may call me Galadriel if you like," she says, voice light and quiet. Her accent clips a few sounds and rolls a few more and Bilbo likes it. He nods. "I really just wanted to meet you and say welcome. If you ever need anything, Bilbo, I am here. Simply ask." She offers up a small smile and leads him to the door, hand between his shoulder blades, and he feels his face turning red. A gentle touch is foreign to him.

"Th-thanks," he manages to get out before the door is shut and an orderly is on him, taking him to the common area.

The common area itself is little more than a large square room with eight tables, two worn sofas accompanied by two matching chairs, and a ping pong table. Three large windows face the central garden and Bilbo faintly hears the static-filled chatter from a radio. There's a few inmates wandering around the room but after taking in his surroundings, he lets his eyes fall to the floor and finds himself an empty table to inhabit until dinner.

An orderly, perhaps the one who led him here, joins him at the table, the scent of coffee heavy in the air around him. "You new here?"

 _Would that be why you're bothering me?_ "Yes."

"Ah, thought so," and there's a laugh folded in. He gestures with the hand vacant of coffee toward one inmate - or are they all patients? Bilbo doesn't really know. "That one there, name's Thorin, he burned his house down, his whole family in it. Didn't even fight when the authorities came for him. Said he was a fella named Smaug or some load like that." Bilbo looks to said arson and squeaks. Looking at him with an intensity he has never encountered is a long-faced man, beard darkening his jawline, with eyes veiled by greasy grey-streaked hair.

"And that one," he points to a man with a silvery scar across the side of his face, "well, he don't speak any proper words. Just shouts sometimes. A real loon, if ya ask me."

Bilbo stands up abruptly, nudging the table, and strides away, arms folded across his chest, the harsh barks of laughter ringing in his ears. He steps outside into the garden and takes in the sunlight. It's bright and the warmth radiating off of the stone pathways urges him to take off his shoes. He complies before taking a seat in the fluffy grass.

"D'ya get to meet the Lady yet, laddie?" Bilbo blinks against the bright sunlight and sees a smiling face above him. The man is wearing a uniform like his, a floppy-eared hat, and a curled mustache that covers his upper lip. He takes a seat next to Bilbo.

"Um, the doctor?" Bilbo asks, nodding toward her office.

"Aye, she's called the Lady, though, on account o' her properness. Every man wants to be her lord but, well, that's not exactly allowed." He laughs as though it were funny and claps a hand against Bilbo's back. "'M Bofur. And who might you be?"

He straightens himself, pushing curls out of his eyes. "Bilbo Baggins."

"Aha, you owned the pastry shop near the center o' town, right?" Bofur rolls his head. "Y'made great lil' pastries - I think ya called 'em éclairs or somethin' o' the like. Great."

Running his fingers through the overgrown grass, Bilbo thinks this isn't so bad. Thinks to himself, _Sure, I don't belong here, but this one doesn't seem too bad_. "What are you here for?" He can't stop himself from asking.

Bofur looks at him squarely, eyes shining even in the shade of his ridiculous hat. "Cracked a few people's melons, just to see what made those folk such bloody cunts." That smile is still on his face and he sounds so pleased with himself that Bilbo is at a loss for words.

Silence overtakes them and they focus on the birds singing in the trees.

Dinner comes just in time. They shuffle into the cafeteria, single-file, and each take a plastic tray with a rubber spoon. Servers plop down what looks to be beans and onion, toss a roll on top, and hand over a small container of vegetables. _Five star meal my first night. Lucky me_.

Bilbo takes a seat alone, across the room from Thorin, who gives him a horrible feeling. The slop that they call food isn't so bad but he eats slowly, tearing the roll into pieces and nibbling on it for much longer than necessary. He listens to Bofur tell jokes to two boys who look very much alike, though one is blond and the other brunet. Bilbo hopes they're not related because the way they touch beneath the table is rather unlike the way siblings _should_ touch.

"They're in for incest and sodomizing a man," the guard behind him murmurs, as if he knew, before beginning another trek around the room, arms tucked across his chest. Bilbo lets his gaze fall back to the overcooked vegetables and frowns. _Shouldn't be here. I'm just a baker_.

They scrape their leftovers into bins, stack their trays, and head back to their respective rooms under the watchful eyes of orderlies. Bilbo smooths out the creases of his sheets - no, not his sheets - as he lies there for hours, sleep's absence taunting him. Through the thin wall, he hears someone moaning, choked sounds interjected, and then after a rather explosive shout, all is quiet once more. Bilbo wants out.

A week passes, his schedule becoming his new routine: wake up, make bed, breakfast, take pills, wander in garden, talk to Bofur, lunch, avoid Thorin, draw patterns in dirt, dust them away, dinner, pretend to sleep. And repeat.

"Baggins, come with me." He follows unquestioningly, though this is taking away from talking with Bofur. They stop outside of Galadriel's office and the guard opens the door, pushes it open, and then him inside. Hair done up in a braid, the Lady turns to him and gestures to the couch on his left.

"Hello there, Bilbo, today will be our first session," she smiles softly. "Would you like some water?"

He nods, taking a seat against the arm, and watches as she pours them each a glass. Swallowing thickly, his palms begin to sweat, the anxiety of social interaction inevitable. Bilbo's not antisocial, only he's been solitary for much of his life, and speaking makes him nervous, especially when the Lady smiles the way she does.

She sits, hands him his water, grabs his file. "How has your first week been?"

"It's been fine. Monotonous." He takes a sip of water and begins to fidget, foot bouncing arhythmically. She jots a few notes and hums approvingly.

"Have you met anyone?"

"Bofur. I stay with him for part of the day. He's the only one I know," Bilbo answers and he's almost embarrassed. He imagines that she writes 'pathetic' on that paper, notes that he's a loser as well as a supposed loon, a supposed killer. 'Loneliness drove him to it'. But he didn't do anything so loneliness drove him to nothing.

The questions continue, how are the orderlies? Does he feel okay? Any voices or blackout periods? Suicidal thoughts?

"Why are you asking these?" Bilbo asks, shoulders by his ears, tension clenching his jaw. He feels like a lab experiment, the Lady poking and prodding him with icy eyes and stupid questions she ought to save for the real nutcases.

Her smile falters. "These are necessary. I want to assure you are alright." He feels foolish and puts his head in his hands.

"I didn't do anything, why am I here? I didn't do anything." Like a chant, he repeats the phrase, growing louder, thrashing out, throwing the glass of water, fighting off the white-coats, screaming his innocence.

Sleep overpowers him as cool liquid swims through his blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More coming along, still a work in progress. Thanks for reading!


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the events in The Misty Mountain Psych Hospital, more character development and all of that.  
> Warning: homophobic language/terms

Two weeks in solitary. He counts every second as if that would help.

Tick. The guards laugh at a joke that isn't humorous. Tock. Another set of push-ups. Tick. He sings a tune he would hum while pies baked. Tock. The food tray, untouched once more, is taken away.

He marks the days by the beatings and the bruises tell him of his crimes.

The smattering on his arms are for screaming at the Lady. (She had watched it herself.) The large few on his chest and back are for breaking one guard's nose. The freshest set on his thighs and knees are for being "a sick lil' fuck".

He knows, now, where he really stands.

Rather, cowers.

Bofur greets him when he's pushed back into the common area, sunlight burning his sensitive vision. He allows a small smile to this... what he would call a friend, if they weren't in a psychiatric hospital. Oh, and killers. But Bilbo isn't a killer, only Bofur.

"Oi, they stole y'away, thought ya might end up like that poor bloke," he says quietly, wrapping an arm around quivering shoulders while nodding to a wheelchair-bound patient. Bilbo looks questioningly to the scarred man - the mute one with no name - but doesn't understand. Bofur nudges his hat up slightly and taps the center of his own forehead. "Fixed 'im up good, they did. 'E was a troublemaker and they don't like that. Now he's nothin' but a screamin' carrot."

 _Just like those veggies they serve for dinner_ , Bilbo thinks and he almost laughs. But a wave of nausea nips that in the bud.

Chatting quietly about all the great radio show jokes he's missed out on, Bofur leads them outside and they settle beneath the shade of a tree. Bilbo can't decide whether or not he likes this little thing between him and an ax murderer, or if that this is even sensible, but he doesn't shy away from it. It's all he has.

His head rushes back, the blow softened by the grass, and a gasp escapes his lungs. There's a pressure on his belly, pressing down on the bruises, pressing what little food is there up, but Bilbo just sees a face a hair's breadth from his own, noses brushing softly whenever he exhales. "Spacin' out on me, laddie?" Bofur's breath tastes of soured milk and he wants little more than to push this psycho away and vomit but he doesn't do either. He allows himself to be used as a cushion, his stomach dancing awkwardly and face turning red.

 _It's not bad_ , he thinks. _And really it should be. I'm a Baggins, we don't get used and pushed around_. That's what his dad always used to say, at least. But Bofur's eyes crinkle when he smiles and his eyes gleam and they're so infectious, those laughs of his, that Bilbo only chuckles and feels vulnerability seep in.

They do not part immediately, Bofur still hovering over him as he whispers about the past two weeks and his plan for escape while Bilbo tries to remember the last time he had a good romp. A week before he was taken into custody. That was also the last time he'd harvested anything from his miniature garden behind his building. _That was ages ago_ , he decides.

At the lunch chime, Bofur untangles himself from the other's limbs and pulls them both to their feet. The rest of the evening seems dull.

Bilbo wakes to a shrill scream rattling off of the walls. He sits up abruptly and hops toward the door, peering nosily out of the small window. Held aloft by two large orderlies, the blond brother - he learned before that his name is Fili - is trashing viciously and gnashing his teeth, streaked sheet still clenched between blood-stained fingers. Bilbo wonders whose blood he wears, wonders if it's a guard's, one that beat him, but once the screaming quiets to occassional cries before ending altogether, he returns to bed, hands fiddling with the hem of his nightwear.

"... wouldn't think he would do that."

"But that other fag looked as though he enjoyed it."

"They're psychotic poofs so, really, who could take their likes..."

Ah. That begs more questions and, when he manages to fall back asleep, Bilbo dreams of mutilation that scares him beyond reasoning.

His brother missing, Kili ( _how original_ , Bilbo mocked before) spends his morning and afternoon with his knees curled up to his chest in one of the plush chairs, gaze lost along the wall. There is pink around his eyes, the tip of his nose is swollen slightly, and he's not wearing the uniform bottoms but rather an ugly puce set that makes Bilbo think it was a last minute availability. 

"Had to force the pills down his throat this morning and now he's like this," Bilbo hears a staff member say. "He's too attached to that fucking faggot of a brother. Poor, stupid kid." They hum in unison, the sound laden with false pity, and it's infuriating.

Bofur takes his hand and leads them outside to their usual spot against the now-blooming bushes. _We'll get to snack on blackberries soon_ , he notes, smelling the flowers that cover the plants. Bofur leans in when they are seated, hat tickling Bilbo's cheek. "Best be careful there, Bilbo; Thorin's got his eye on ya."

As if on cue, Bilbo spots him, the one that frightens him the most. He's peering through the window, pacing past them, eyes only on his prey. He can feel the flesh redden under the blazing stare but he does nothing, gives no sign that this is happening, successfully suppresses a shudder. Just continues to write nonsense in the dirt.

 _Great. Another set of eyes to worry about_ , Bilbo thinks as tension begins to build in his lower back. He hates this place.

"Why do you say that?" the Lady asks, hand resting on her chin.

"The constant scrutiny for nothing. It's horrible." He doesn't look at her but rather the painting of a forest on her wall. _It's_ not horrible. It's mesmerizing, dark with speckles of white showing through the leaves. He wants to be there, anywhere rather than here.

The Lady clears her throat and leans forward. "Bilbo, why do you say 'for nothing'? Do you not remember the incident that landed you here?"

Confused, he thinks back, searches his memory for what could have possibly been enough to warrant psychiatric incarceration. Nothing. Baking, gardening, tea time, sleep, and again. "No."

"The pastry filling," she leads, "for the, what do you call them? Puff pastries?" He offers a nod for her last comment but nothing more. She frowns further and straightens, scribbling her notes. "Midsummer's eve. Think back to then. What was on the news?"

"Didn't watch the news." _Still don't_.

"A poisoning was the lead story." Bilbo's not listening; he's not even in her office. He's in that forest, climbing into the trees. "Two children were killed that day." Higher and higher. He feels the tree's bark beneath his toes. "They had ingested lye through that cream filling." The canopy breaks and he's gazing over a landscape unlike any other. All is quiet.

Save for the _scritch scritch scritch_ of pen on paper.

"I think we're done for today, Bilbo. You may go."

For dinner that night, they get a special treat: chunks of greyish mystery meat in their vegetable stew. It's rubbery and hard to chew but Bilbo doesn't complain. No use in it anyway.

He hates when Bofur has his therapy sessions. It leaves him with nothing to do but take a few laps around the common area before heading back to his own room. But even there, he doesn't feel like he's far enough from Thorin. The arson never speaks to him, nor moves toward him whenever he passes, but the stare is enough to let Bilbo know that he want him. Dead? Maybe. To eat? He wouldn't blame him.

Bilbo sees a shadow loom in the doorway but the question of to whom the shadow belongs is too great to move him from beneath the bed.

A spider crawls over his hand. He shouts and is pulled back by a white-coat to the sofa beside the mute man.

"What did the rabbit say to the celery? 'Quit stalking me'."

His is the only laugh in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the support thus far and all the kind comments! You all are just making this the best writing experience I've ever had, truthfully. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and will enjoy the next to come.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the events in The Misty Mountain Psych Hospital, more character development and all of that.  
> Warning: mention of rape, general strong language

"Really, ya canna tell why someone's a cunt from their heads," Bofur explains, punctuating his words with jabs to his friend's shoulder. Bits of dry roll fall from his mouth as he sighs. "But it was still good fun."

Bilbo nods and chews thoughtfully on a bit of grainy pear. The night before he had dreamed that he was back in his bakery, whipping fresh cream for pastry centers. He blamed it on the Lady. "Was it messy?"

"Y'bet your ass it was. And sticky. Ya see, the brain has lots o' lil' bloodlines in it and when the ax breaks 'em, blood spurts everywhere." Bofur laughs and mimics an explosion with his arms. They're relaxed, talking about his past murders, and laughs spread through them at each retelling of the victims - seven in total. And Bilbo doesn't think it's as crazy as he should.

Fili is wheeled back in after three weeks. His cheeks are sunken, eyes dark and glazed over, with yellow and green bruises along his wrists and shoulders that Bilbo notices when they go in for their showers. Much to Kili's hurt, he shies away from touches and no longer sits close to his brother like he once did, though they still lace fingers at meals. _Habits die hard_ , Bilbo deduces.

Shade cools the midday swelter as they teach each other things that once were perhaps forgotten. With his hat pushed far back enough to show off messy brown hair, Bofur looks like a different person and his companion spends most his time admiring the subtle change, drawing and re-drawing his face in the dirt until he is pulled closer by a surprisingly strong arm.

Bofur continues to chat, fingers lightly touching Bilbo's spine through the thin white shirt he opted for that day. A smile plays at the corner of his mouth and Bilbo is reddening, mouth suddenly dry, toes playing idly with sunlit grass. _We're friends is all and it does get awful lonely here..._.

"Thorin might jus' make 'is move soon. Watch out," and then he's back onto the topic of lasses and their short uniform skirts, oh, how he loved those days. And Bilbo feels like one of those stupid schoolgirls.

The next few days drag on for much longer than usual. It's as though time slowed and the world didn't and loneliness seeps into his bones. Bofur retreats to his room after his session, head down, and doesn't come out for dinner or for breakfast. Lunch is almost as if he wasn't there and he doesn't sit with Bilbo beneath the tree that afternoon. There's a faint sound of crying in the night but Bilbo thinks, _My friend is too strong for that, must be one of the brothers_. It comforts him enough for some rest.

The Lady touches his knee and he jumps slightly, jolted from his reverie. "You spaced out on me," she whispers but it doesn't sound as nice coming from her mouth as it does from Bofur's. When Bilbo looks at her, he sees lies. He sees a monster lurking beneath pale skin and demons dancing behind blue eyes. He hates her face. "You were saying that you took her back to your flat."

"Right. We went upstairs, undressed, and, well, fucked. She kept pushing me away, but she was kind of smiling so I knew she didn't mean it, and she started crying. I didn't know women cried during sex." Bilbo chews absently on a nail, a disgusting habit he picked up after the orderlies "accidentally" broke his pipe during room searches. "But she kept crying even when we finished and then she left. That was the last time I felt _good_."

"Did she enjoy it?"

"Yeah, she made lots of noises and I took that as a good sign."

Touching her throat, the Lady nods and writes as he talks. 'Delusions'. 'Inability to read others' expressions'. He looks away, back to the painting of the forest.

Bofur tells him they should just nap that day. He hasn't been the same since that bad session, his jokes dwindling down to a few every once in a while, but his time with Bilbo only increases daily and the latter doesn't mind. So they curl up in the grass, sun warming their bodies, and Bofur nods off soon after.

A shadow breaks the warmth and Bilbo rolls over to see who it is. Thorin. Hair pulled up in a sloppy bun atop his head, he looms over the object of his obsession and stares. No smile and that strikes fear in Bilbo.

"Hello," he manages, eyes never meeting Thorin's. He wants to reach over to Bofur, take his hand and wake him, because he knows that he'll protect him but he can't move, not under that gaze. Even in the late summer sunlight, he feels cold.

Thorin sits beside him, an arm's length away, and looks to the ground between them, fingers touching the grass warily. His expression softens minimally and he exhales a very quiet sigh. "Hello." His voice is like gravel, rough but soft, and Bilbo suspects it's from a lack of use.

Conversation evades the two as they sit, leaves rustling in the breeze as the only noise. Bilbo studies Thorin's face when he's not looking: he's got a strong nose and a rather angular face with a jawline that's hidden by a scraggly beard. Woven through his hair is a thin braid that seems out of place for this stern arson.

Bofur snorts in his sleep and as if a switch is flipped, Thorin's shoulders tighten and he stands, darting quickly back inside, hands pushed deep into his pockets. Bilbo allows himself a shaky breath before he lies back down. He never tells Bofur.

Tart and juicy, the ripe blackberries stain his fingertips as he plucks them from the bramble and holds them in his shirt. For every two he puts in his shirt, one finds its way to his mouth. A rather inefficient strategy but Bilbo can't resist; it reminds him of childhood trips through the woods, over the creek that brought a few fish occasionally, his sanctuary.

"Oi, ya lil' shit, ya eat all o' 'em and we won't have any fo' dinner," Bofur scolds playfully, snatching one from Bilbo's hand just as it reaches his lips. He pops it into his own mouth and laughs like he once did and warmth spreads through their cheeks. Bilbo nudges him slightly with his hip and goes back to harvesting the berries. _He's back, really back_ , he thinks.

A thorn catches his finger and blood bubbles along the thin wound. He hisses, pulling his hand out of the bush to inspect the damage. "Nick ya'self there?" Bofur takes his hand in his own, eyeing the bloodied digit, before taking it into his mouth. Startled, Bilbo squeaks and flushes a deep red, ears burning.

"I was be-being careless," he stammers, not able to look at this awfully strange situation. _Friends, that's what we are. Friends_. When he finally thinks it's clear, Bofur removes his mouth and returns the hand to the bramble, giving it one last pat before going back to picking berries.

Arousal bites at his body, pricks his limbs and presses a hole in his belly, and he tries his best to suppress the need. He doesn't want to give in, not with walls as thick as paper, not with the thoughts going through his mind, not with curious eyes ready to peer through the door's window. 

_You are a sick little fuck. How could you be like those men? How could you do this to him, to yourself? You deserve to be here. You need to be locked away forever or put down, like a lame horse_. He cries and feels wave after wave of self-loathing crash over him before he manages to ease the tension in his groin, even slightly. Sleep doesn't come that night.

When Bofur grabs his shoulder at breakfast, Bilbo wants to curl away and die. The touch is nothing more than casual and yet he can't get the thoughts from the night before to leave him alone. They are poisonous, painful, and he feels tears welling up in his eyes.

"Are you like, y'know, Fili and Kili?"

The hatted man looks to the two mentioned and snorts. "I ain't no brother-fucker, Bilbo. I didn't even have a brother but I wouldn't have been if I did." He smiles, eyes full of 'why', and goes back to eating his overly runny oatmeal.

It doesn't help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to reiterate my appreciation of all the support. Had someone asked, I could've sworn I might be the only one who would like this, even a little, but you all have given me such a drive to continue this and while that adds pressure, it's been a great ride so far. Thank you, thank you, thank you, my sweet lovely folk. <3


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the events in The Misty Mountain Psych Hospital, more character development and all of that.

Screams don't bounce off of the padded yellow walls but rather are absorbed. His throat aches and he wants sleep and yet stopping is impossible. Fear has taken over his body, a feeling of overwhelming dread that is controlling his now-bound limbs, speaking with his voice, seeing with false eyes. No, that monster _is real_ , the creature that ripped open the door and snatched him out of bed, put its bony finger around his neck and squeezed until he saw stars. That was real and these orderlies know it, just as he does.

A large bald man comes in, syringe in hand, and injects him with what he assumes is sedative. _Please, put me out of this misery_ , Bilbo begs. Unnatural dreamless sleep follows shortly after.

They keep him under observation for two more days and he cringes at the thought of so many people watching him, judging him. Still, they send in the Lady and he tells her for the fifth time that he's better now, that he'll be fine, lies and tells her he made the monster up, and she just nods and the door's lock clicks and no one comes in to get him out. Bilbo's tempted to pitch a fit but he opts to chew on the inside of his cheek until it's raw and bleeding and he no longer needs to escape right then.

When they do get around to letting him go back, he's weary. His limbs seem too heavy and his head swims often, especially when he moves, but he's excited to see Bofur again. Bilbo trudges to their tree and sits, leaning his head against the rough bark. The leaves are beginning to brown and dry out and the smell is crisp.

Fall was always his favorite. _It's the most beautiful time_ , he muses. _The trees and the breezes that bring the crunchy leaves down make it so nice_.

"Hello," a voice rasps and Bilbo opens his eyes to see an unlikely face in front of him. Thorin's seated, legs crossed and hands tucked by his sides, an arm's length away. He's eyeing Bilbo kindly, the smallest hint of a smile playing at his lips, and his beard has been trimmed somewhat. It's different. Pleasant.

"Hello." Bilbo allows himself a grin and moves over to allow his company some space in the shade. After a moment, Thorin shiftsbeside him, still tucked into himself. Silence laps over them but neither seems to mind. The birds are chirping musically, singing songs to one another that Bilbo wishes he could understand.

An hour passes, Bilbo nods off for some part of it, and when he wakes, there's a head on his shoulder, stray hairs from a bun tickling his cheek. His heart races into his throat and his hands are clammy but Thorin is asleep, his own hands folded neatly in his lap. Bilbo looks at them, studies the wavy silver scars that streak the skin, wonders how much more skin is painted with memories like that.

The chime for dinner rings through the courtyard and Thorin starts at the noise, eyes wide. He clears his throat, says nothing, and scurries into the building, not without a backwards glance. _Too soon_ , Bilbo thinks sadly.

Bofur greets him at dinner and takes the cornbread off of his tray as he does. "Good t'see ya back; I was worried 'bout ya, after all that screamin' ya did. Thought ya might've cracked tha' egg o' yours." He laughs as they settle down to eat some chili-like meal. It's good, bland, and the jokes they share are better, but Bilbo keeps finding his eyes landing on Thorin and it's difficult to focus because now he's curious.

Through the wall, Bilbo chats with his best friend, whispers different scenarios that could aid their escape out of this "nuthouse", as Bofur puts it. "We could climb the tree, I'll teach you how to do it quickly, and then we could go along the branches until we're above the roof. Jump down and then we'll be able to make a run for it."

"No, no, tha' won't work. That fence's too big for us t'climb without bein' spotted."

"What if we start a fire? They open the gate then, right?"

"Now _tha_ ' might jus' work."

That night he dreams of his favorite meat pies and the flavor is strange on his tongue when he wakes.

She is encouraging words out of him and Bilbo doesn't know what to say. He can't trust her, only Bofur, but she won't give up and dreams are coming to him with memories that aren't exactly his and he's worried. Maybe he's broken, like they said, maybe they knew and that's why they sent him to this place. Maybe they were right, after all.

"I've been dreaming of being back in the bakery. I'm making the stuff I normally do, little cakes and creams and custard tarts. Except it doesn't feel like me. Like it's _me_ doing these things but the body doesn't feel right... or, maybe, the brain isn't mine."

Nodding, the Lady gives a weak smile. _Her plan is working_ , he thinks bitterly, _her plan to poison my thoughts, plant these ideas, make me think I'm wrong. Maybe this was their scheme, to make me crazy_. He says nothing for the rest of the session.

The peas are hard and tasteless but they are the only thing that catch his interest. Bofur is eating with someone he never bothered to notice and the brothers are engrossed in their own conversation too fully to be any company. Even Thorin is sitting across the room, focused solely on his tray. Bilbo wonders what he's done to offend and crushes a pea with his rubber fork.

That night, hand in his trousers, Bilbo thinks of naked skin and soft pink mouths. He tastes the sweat on his tongue, feels the pliancy beneath his fingertips, hears the moans ringing off of his ceilings, whispered filth in his ear. The shame is in who he pictures beneath him. He tries to forget before morning breaks.

He seeks solitude more often now, forcing himself to break from the common room and settle in silence in his room. Bofur is intoxicating though, charisma's spell cast on anyone he sets his sights on, and it feels like trying to quit an addiction. Bilbo trembles and chews on his tongue, reveling in the pain because it's teaching him.

 _Quit the drug. Quit cold turkey_ , he tells himself. He doesn't feel safe anymore. Too exposed, too wanting of contact and company that it's taken his shields away, left him nude in the wild, with feral beasts hunting him.

When he bites too hard and the taste of copper fills his watering mouth, Bilbo sighs and feels strange inside. Realization hits and he wants to cry.

They manage to sit on the first branch before the orderlies are yanking at their ankles, demanding they get down, right bloody _now_. Bofur laughs at them, wiggling his feet in their faces, and it's this small rebellion that gets the orderlies fuming. They shout, bringing out chairs to stand on, one getting halfway to them via trunk before he's pushed down. Bilbo laughs, too, watching their faces contort, and he realizes that he's laughing too loudly, too hysterically.

"On three," Bofur whispers. They count and leap over the grabbing arms, sprinting as they hit the ground. 'Nowhere' is where they get but it's good fun.

"Thorin," he scratches out. His eyes are now soft, blue that sparkles in the afternoon light, and he's breaking apart dried leaves between his fingers. Although, they've spent a few more afternoons together, he was usually silent after his "hello".

"Bilbo." He smiles because this is easy, this is nice. Bilbo never expected he would befriend the arson who gave him chills, but here they are, knees touching as they destroy fallen leaves. Thorin ducks his head, hiding a tight smile, and he brings out a laugh from the other. "It's alright."

Eyes meet and Bilbo sees vulnerability, sees a contest of protection and desire for friendship, sees a dichotomy ( _finally_ , he thinks, _a place for that word_ ). And he wants to grab hold of Thorin and shake him, tell him the right choice, but he doesn't, _can't_. He doesn't even know. So they lapse back into listening to the radio and speak no more that night.

They take Bofur away that night. It's been four days since their tree-rebellion and Bilbo still feels that rush in his veins. So when they grabbed Bofur by his collar and elbows and practically carried him down the hall, through those double doors, it's unexpected. Almost.

Bilbo's concern grows when he doesn't return after dinner. Or after breakfast. Not after lunch and the evening talk show on the radio either. In fact, he's unsure when he'll actually see Bofur again. Thorin stays with him, not speaking, just sits with him, perhaps a hand resting on his arm once or twice. Fear winds itself in his belly, burning brightly as time ticks on and on.

And then, suddenly, when he's no longer thinking of the horrible things they could be doing - staining his body in bruises, tearing at the muscles, burning the flesh along his sides, punishment for dissent - and he's playing idly with Thorin's hair, Bofur is there. His hat is askew, his eyes stare into the distance, and they leave his wheelchair beside the window, facing their tree.

"Bofur," Bilbo whispers, grabbing his hand off of the armrest. He doesn't move, doesn't look over, and he's sure it's a joke; he'll try to make Bilbo jump in a moment.

... _Now._

_No, must be... now._

_No_.

Bofur sits there, breathing steady and shallow. And when Bilbo touches his hat, pulls it back, sees the red circle in the center of his forehead, sees the swelling and the light bruising and nearly chokes, he doesn't move then.

Bilbo closes his eyes, refuses to open them, even when he's being taken to his room, even when he's splayed across his bed thoughtlessly.

Reality is beyond his eyelids and he doesn't much care to face it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to follow, thank you so much for reading and cheering on this little creation. :-)  
> Also, after the final chapter, which will be the next one, there will be patient case files for our main characters and possibly a "spin-off" type writing where we'll study the histories of others, aside from Bilbo. Keep your eyes on the lookout if you're interested.


	5. ???

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The finale of the events in The Misty Mountain Psych Hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took such a long time to post. It's been rocky to write, hopefully that doesn't show.

Another fit of dread hits him in the night and he wakes in a cold sweat, fingers digging into the mattress as if his life depended on it. _They'll get me, too_ , Bilbo whimpers, _They'll lock me in my mind and laugh as they do and it'll be over. They probably laughed before as they destroyed my friend_. Tears dampen his pillow but he doesn't dare move.

During his sessions, Bilbo lies and says he's fine. Never tells the Lady that the orderlies are out for him, he knows it, that Bofur's silencing has been the hardest thing for him to deal with since childhood, that no matter how often Thorin takes him to his tree, nothing changes, that the bark still burns to the touch. Because satisfaction would pour out of her and she'd smile, pretend to feel sorry, and write of her success in his file. _Eat shit, you monster_.

After lunch, Thorin directs them to the seats at the window, the ones furthest from the taunting radio, and takes Bilbo's hands in his. He doesn't say anything, just holds his hands and traces over the thin bones absently with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry," Bilbo whispers but for whom, he's not entirely sure. He closes his eyes and lets his head rest against the other's shoulder, beard tickling the shell of his ear. _Home is being redefined once again_.

The days Thorin has his sessions, he doesn't seem like himself. He's hostile and harsh and there's a fire in his eyes, not at all like he's shown in the quiet times with Bilbo. He pulls himself away and usually eats two bites before going away to disappear in a corner of his room, fuming over a worn letter he never lets anyone touch. The Durin brothers take his place that day, murmuring stories over the din of the radio.

Comparatively, they are crummy at telling jokes but Bilbo learns to smile again. Fili likes to watch his brother, who is much more animated and excitable than he knew, tell stories of their lives before the hospital. Some of them don't sound completely true and Bilbo thinks that's just fine.

"And our uncle, he was the, what was it? 'King of Automobiles'? Something like that. Anyway, he would let us drive around the lot in the _really_ nice cars. And Fili was only thirteen then!" Kili laughs and his brother nods, popping another green bean into his mouth. Ease of conversation comes naturally to the Durins and Bilbo finds himself bitterly jealous that they have each other.

They walk around the courtyard, different subjects arising on different days. One afternoon, Bilbo spent the time teaching them about gardening and the importance of ripeness of berries when baking. They loved that lesson, though they complained that they hadn't gotten to enjoy any blackberries and that Bofur had been greedy to not let them in on some. A stab to the chest for Bilbo.

Thorin's hair continues to grow and he refuses to allow anyone to cut it when they are groomed. He combs through it when Bilbo talks and wraps it into a bun before they go outside, which becomes a rare thing as winter's blustery weather comes in.

"Why do you let it grow out?" Bilbo asks one day as he tries to recreate a beautiful braid to which he can't remember the name. Something about a bone.

"Like it," Thorin croaks. He grasps fumbling fingers in his own and slowly goes through the process for the fifth time. There's a lightness in his smile, a sense of peace that lowers his shoulders, and it seems so good that Bilbo doesn't know what to feel himself. _Last time, my friend was taken. I couldn't stand it a second time_.

He finally gets it around the time dinner's chime rings through.

Bofur's in the dining hall when they arrive, his wheelchair at the end of a table. His arm is shaking violently and the food is coming off of the spoon but he doesn't allow anyone near him; fine motor skills might be lost but he's still strong enough to swing a few times. Almost by accident, Bilbo sits beside him and feels guilty as he stills.

"Hello," Bilbo grits out, something closing his already tight throat. Bofur's cheeks are sunken below darkened eyes and the left half of his face sags slightly, something Bilbo hadn't come to notice before. He doesn't resemble that wise-cracking ax murderer that befriended a poisoning baker, the one that gave him a sense of belonging. _No_ , he thinks sadly, _this is a shell. Like the skin of a snake, useless and dead_.

Bilbo doesn't stay around for the rest of the meal. Instead he finds comfort in his room, huddled back into a corner of his bed, tears never falling. That'd be too caring, too vulnerable, and he couldn't be that here. _Bagginses aren't pussies, weepin' and cryin' all the time._ That's what his father would say. But then again, what did he know?

"Do you think you've been affected by Bofur's stroke?" The Lady rests her chin on her neatly folded hands, eyes peering at him, into him, and he wants to vomit.

"Yes, we all have. He was funny and... nice," he replies shakily as bile claws at his throat. "They caused the stroke, they made him this way, didn't they?"

She shifts and her eyebrows furrow. "The nurses?" A quick nod. "No, no, his stroke was caused by a blood clot travelling into his brain. The nurses are helping him now gain some mobility and function. Why would they hurt him, or anyone else here?"

Bilbo doesn't answer, just chews on the inside of his cheek.

An orderly bumps into him on his way to his room the next day and he's sure it's because of the Lady and her wicked mouth, filthy lies dripping from it as she tells them that their plan is falling right into place, lets them in on the details of his torment. Not that she knows completely.

Thorin treats him like they've known each other for much longer than they actually have. He's doting, like an older brother, and laughs at poorly told jokes. It warms Bilbo to know he has a friend, a companion, but in the corner of his eye he sees that hat, the wheelchair that rarely moves, the thinning shadow of a companion he once knew, and dread fills him.

"He won't ever be the same, will he?" Bilbo asks one day, eyes locked on a stray fiber on the couch. Thorin shakes his head, casts a solemn look, doesn't bother offering a smile that would be ignored. "Didn't think so. It's sad; his jokes were the best."

The sounds of Fili's laughter wash over the bits of conversation that could have been but never found voice. _It's fine, though_ , he thinks, _I'm tired of talking_.

The nurses host a holiday party for both the patients and the staff and Bilbo is rather surprised when one morning, the walls are decorated in different coloured tinsel, small bells hanging on the door handles, music playing over the intercom rather than stale voices.

Gathering underneath the small disco ball, the patients shift and dance and sway to music that's beat is too slow for most of their movements. It's festive, though, and different; Bilbo likes it. Thorin takes his hands and they dance somewhat rhythmically to the music for some time, smiles beaming in the darkened room, and Bilbo likes this more. He likes the way Thorin's fingers squeeze ever so lightly when he laughs and the small nibble on his lower lip that follows and the holly that gets tucked in the center of his bun halfway through a song Bilbo doesn't know.

"I like winter for the fun," Thorin says. "People have to cheer up more because the sun is gone some times." His eyes flit to the window and the grey clouds covering up what could be a blue sky are his allies.

Bilbo nods and twirls this time. When he finishes the turn, Thorin pulls him close, hand finding the small of his back to hold him in place. "I heard when you and Bofur said you two could escape. I can help, if you'd leave with me." His voice is barely over a raspy whisper and only after they move away from each other, pulled to different partners - Fili takes Thorin's hand and Kili drags Bilbo away - does Bilbo realize he's holding his breath.

Head swimming, heart thumping, he can barely pay attention to the youngest Durin brother, though he himself isn't completely attentive to begin with. _Leave? Our plans to leave... that's what got Bofur hurt._ Bilbo watches Thorin as he dances and it feels like a fist forcing its way through his chest.

But when Thorin meets his stare and he nods, watches that smile spread across the arson's face, watches his eyes light up, Bilbo feels the walls crumble down on top of him. That night, sleep doesn't come.

Over bowls of cinnamon porridge, Thorin's excitement for the escape hasn't dimmed. Eyes flicking from guard to guard to Bilbo back to guard, he whispers the route Bilbo is to follow. "And you'll find me by this small door with a broken handle. It's not hard to miss."

Bilbo doesn't say anything as the Durin boys slide in beside them and get to chatting about the plans for the day.

Fili pushes them all to go outside and have fun in the snow. The flakes melt on their warmed shoulder and heads as they trudge through the high drifts, kicking up the white fluff. Kili falls back into a rather large pile - lots of the snow came from the tree branches above - and begins to make snow angels and then soon they all are, laughs ringing off of the walls.

And even against the chill of melting snow, Bilbo feels warmth blossom in his belly and he think it's okay. _This can be okay._

Friday comes around and Thorin is taken in to what used to be Bofur's session. His eyes are wild as he's taken out of the common area, teeth leaving indents in his bottom lip. Bilbo doesn't know what to say so he opts for looking at the dented ping pong in his fingertips. What once felt like a safer place now feels like one dangerous place to be.

"Someone wants to see you," Fili says in a hushed voice. He nods over to Bofur and then returns to stroking his brother's hair that's resting in his lap. Thumping rapidly, Bilbo's heart flips in his chest but his legs begin to move on their own and he finds himself beside the wheelchair he's been avoiding since their last silent meal.

He clears his suddenly dry throat. "Hello." Taking a seat, Bilbo feels a prickly sort of blush crawl up his neck and he tries to hold off the shaking for as long as he can. He looks up to Bofur and again, there's a weight in his chest that cuts off his air and he wishes he was blind instead of crazy. _Why? Why would they do this? Oh, my friend..._

Bofur's face is almost unrecognizable, his mustache shaven off, cheeks sunken, lips chapped and nose now a sharp beak. The left half of his body is strapped to either his chest or to the chair itself and there's minimal movement in his right side. He doesn't smile, not even with his eyes, but gestures weakly with his fingers. Bilbo grabs them, feeling the cold skin beneath his palm, and now he's crying.

"I'm sorry. I _really_ am," he sobs, "I didn't know they would do this or else I never would have said anything about leaving. We could've stayed here." He thinks to when they picked the blackberries, the day Bofur sat on his belly and shared silly tales, the smile he offered the new inmate, the way things used to be. He bites on his tongue until the taste of blood overwhelms the bitterness of guilt and still he hates himself.

With a shaky sigh, Bofur's eyes close and the right side of his mouth tightens. And when tears fall silently from his eyes, Bilbo wants to die. Whether Bofur was accepting his apology or not, he won't ever know. He feels the urge to vomit nipping at his throat, feels the way his fingers are gripping too tightly, and he just doesn't know what to do. So he stands and runs. There is little shame mingling with the pain.

"And what do you think is causing the nightmares?"

Bilbo swallows and watches his foot wiggle. "Guilt, probably. Over what I've done. The people I've hurt."

"Oh? Guilt is the first step into redemption." There's a smile laced in the Lady's voice and Bilbo's fingers itch to wrap around her throat, watch her horrified face turn blue as he squeezes harder and harder, watch her die and then he would grin over her corpse because _he_ would win, not her.

"Tomorrow," is all Thorin says. No matter how much Bilbo pushes for more - when, where, how - he gets the same response. _Tomorrow_. It'd be infuriating if he wasn't so ready.

_But then again, maybe I'm not._

They spend the evening with the Durin brothers, talking about everything they can think of. Wrapped in each other's presences, they lapse into a sense of normalcy and it feels like maybe they aren't so crazy and maybe this ward's staff, this hospital, the world outside, _that's_ the crazy side. And when they each wander off to their rooms, the theory looms heavily in the air.

It's the screaming alarm that wakes him. At the sound, Bilbo leaps to his feet, hands reaching for an already open door, and he steps into the hallway.

There he sees it. The dark grey cloud of smoke puffing from the staff's office, coughing out a few rather ash-covered orderlies as they flee, and Bilbo knows immediately. He sprints through the unlocked passages, pushes open the door to the courtyard and scrambles up the ice-covered tree, hands desperate for grip.

At the top, he looks to the gate and watches as it pulls back steadily, automated for such emergencies, and he allows himself a smile.

It fades when he thinks of his friend inside.

"Thorin!" he shouts over the wailing alarm system. He can hear the other patients being ushered out of the building across the hall and he can't see Thorin among them. Bilbo covers his mouth and nose with his sleeve and begins to inch closer to the now consumed office.

He continues to call for Thorin as he opens the door fully, fire belching enormous waves of heat at him, but there is no answer. The sprinklers are little use, almost spitting some water on the inferno that is the office, and Bilbo would've gasped at the sight could he breathe.

Thorin is sitting against the cabinets, hands clamped hard to his belly, as he coughs, hair wild, eyes closed tightly. At his name, he reaches out blindly for Bilbo. _This isn't how it was supposed to be_ , Bilbo frets.

"Thorin, are you okay?" He's answered by the red bloom beneath Thorin's fingers, the half-smile he's offered, and that gut-gripping ache that runs through him. _An orderly got him._ "No. C'mon, we can still leave." Bilbo coughs several times, the smoke irritating his entire body, as he grabs onto Thorin's hand. "Get up." But Thorin shakes his head and he's pale, head lolling from side to side slightly.

"You go. The gate is open. Go, Bilbo, _now_ ," Thorin growls. Tears run through the ash on his face and his chin is quivering and without thinking, Bilbo places a kiss to his cheeks, to his nose, to his mouth, and he shakes his head. Part of him is screaming that this is ridiculous, get the fuck out of here, but his legs don't comply. 

The heat is overwhelming and sweat beads along his neck and forehead and takes a seat beside Thorin, hands still clasped around his. 

"I really must be crazy," Bilbo laughs before he falls into another coughing fit. _I didn't kill anyone, she made me think I did, but I_ must _be insane to stay here and die with the arson I've known for two months_. The thickness of the air makes it harder to breathe and Bilbo feels lightheaded, watches as Thorin begins to pass out, and he doesn't shake him.

Smoke tastes sweet on his tongue as he falls out of consciousness, a swarm of yellow boots the last thing he sees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ("taunting radio" refers to my plans of including "My Body is a Cage" by Arcade Fire into the story, which was later revised. Still fits a bit, I think.)  
> And with that, we end our observation of the patients in The Misty Mountain Psychiatric Hospital for the Criminally Insane.  
> You guys, this has been wildly fun and challenging and I really don't think it would have been so much without all of the supporters that kept me going. Each lurker, kudo-er, comment-er, all of you have made this possible and you should know that this is your baby as much as it is my own. Good or bad, you aided in its creation. I give you all of my love and greatest wishes for everything.
> 
> As you might know, there will be prequels, if you will, for Thorin Oakenshield and Fili and Kili Durin. The separate links will be posted in the case files (the Durins' will be posted in Bofur's file, Thorin's will be in his own) and I'll be posting them from this pseud so it'll all stay together.


End file.
